by Karen Odden
I leaned forward to smell one of the yellow ones. “Who runs it now?”
“My two older brothers. My sister and I were quite a bit younger, and we were sent to a conservatory together. But whereas she had genius, I had only some talent. I quickly realized that I was far more interested in the mechanics of the piano—the strings, the wood, the tuning.” He held up his hands. “These ugly fingers may not look like it, but they are quite adept.”
I smiled. “I’m sure they are.”
“I worked on pianos in France for some years, and when I came to England—more than ten years ago, now—I started looking for a place where I might both fix pianos and keep my roses. And once I found this and established the shop, I traveled back to fetch some cuttings. They were fragile, of course. At first, I wasn’t sure they’d survive.” He gave a shrug. “This climate is not so hospitable, but I keep them carefully watered and blanket them with soil and straw in the winter to protect them from freezing and thawing. That’s what kills them, you see.”
I walked on to the next bush, covered with small yellow roses edged in orange, like miniature sunsets. “What are these?”
“Golden Amours.” He pointed to some white roses a bit farther on. “And these are some of my favorites. Les Cœurs Noirs. The Black Hearts.”
“Why call them Black Hearts when they’re so white and pretty?”
He cupped an open bloom and turned it toward me so I could see the heart, the color of deepest night, inside. “You see?”
I looked more closely at the bush. Most of the blooms were closed, or barely open, white roses, with threads of red veining the petals, and with leaves of green so deep they were almost black.
They were identical to the rose that had appeared on my piano.
Keeping my voice casual, I said, “They’re beautiful. I don’t suppose they’re common.”
“No. I’m the only one who has them here in England, so far as I know.”
I could feel my pulse thrumming as I touched the petals. My mind was busy reassembling the events on the night that Jack had left the flower, and so I only caught the tail end of Mr. Bertault’s sentence: “Would you like to hear it?”
I tore my eyes away from the rose. “I beg your pardon?”
“The story about the roses,” he said patiently. “It’s a romance, of a sort.”
“I’d love to hear it,” I said.
“Alors. Once there was a girl named Désirée Clary who lived in Marseille. Have you heard of her?” I shook my head. “She was a French silk merchant’s daughter, a beauty, with black curling hair and dark eyes, and when she was younger than you, she was Napoléon Bonaparte’s first love.” His expression turned regretful. “But her brother Étienne didn’t approve of the young upstart soldier, who had been born in Italy and wasn’t even French, especially as he would be going off to war and might never come back.”
He clasped his hands behind his back, looking down at the flowers. “Now, as you’d expect, Napoléon was not to be thwarted. He came to Désirée one night in disguise, borrowing his groom’s clothes to conceal himself, so that he might declare his love and ask for a secret engagement before he left for the front. Young Désirée promised herself and waited for him. However, by the time Bonaparte returned to Paris, his ambitions had grown, and he abandoned her in order to marry the widow Joséphine de Beauharnais, who had not only a small fortune, you see”—he raised one finger, then a second—“but also political connections.”
“That’s rotten.”
“Poor Désirée was heartbroken. Of course, eventually she fell in love with a different French general and became queen of Sweden—so we must not feel too much pity. But Bonaparte had this rose cultivated expressly for her, to remind her of their early love. When she was crowned queen, he sent her an entire bouquet.”
“I see. They’re called Black Hearts because he was opportunistic and faithless,” I said dryly.
“Or because, in his heart, he never stopped loving the black-haired girl. Some find the story romantic.” He gave me a wink. “To me it suggests the value of being able to disguise yourself effectively when circumstances require.”
I laughed and drew my shawl closer around me as we walked on. The sun was dropping and the breeze had turned cool.
Thinking of Stephen’s lie about the rose, I realized I had the perfect chance to find out if there had been any truth at all in what he’d told me about himself. “Mr. Bertault,” I began haltingly, “Jack told me that you knew most everyone at the Royal Academy. Did you know Stephen Gagnon? He plays violin at the Octavian now.”
He looked at me, and his guarded expression was very much like the one Jack sometimes wore. “Oui—I knew him.” A pause, and then, in a careful tone: “Is he a friend of yours?”
“An acquaintance, I would call him.”
He looked relieved. “Ah, bien.” He stopped in front of some crimson blossoms that ran riot over a wooden trellis and plucked out a dead twig that was tangled in the stems.
“Did Jack tell you that Stephen had come to the Octavian?” I asked.
“Yes. Jacques never met him at the Academy.” He twirled the twig absently. “But they had a friend in common.”
“Stephen told me he was thrown out because of a false rumor.”
“Bah!” He turned, and his scowl was almost as bitter as one of Drummond’s. “There was nothing false about the rumor. He’s a rat and a cheat, and that’s the truth.” His vehemence startled me, and I remained silent. After a moment, he looked at me apologetically. “It’s no matter, ma chérie. He won’t last long at the music hall. I’ve no admiration for my brother-in-law, but he’s no fool. He’ll discover what sort of man Stephen is soon enough.”
But Stephen is exactly the sort of man Drummond likes, I thought.
“Could you tell me the truth about why he was thrown out?” I asked as I sat down on a nearby bench. “I—I’ve a particular reason for wanting to know.”
“Very well.” He sat down on the bench beside me. “I also taught piano in France for several years before coming to the Academy. Did Jacques tell you that?”
I shook my head. “No. But I might have guessed.”
That brief, sideways smile, both wry and mischievous. “Because I cannot resist giving lessons, eh?”
I laughed. “Because you know precisely what needs to be said to make your point.”
“D’accord. Well, sometimes it falls on deaf ears.” He shrugged. “When you teach, you come to recognize the different kinds of students. There are some, like you, who are humble and willing to learn. They work hard; they listen; they build their skills, piece by piece. Then there are some whose parents have sent them to a music school to get them out of the way, or to find them something to do—which is a foolish waste, but there are plenty of bourgeois families with more money than sense.” He paused. “And then there are those who have talent—sometimes exceptional talent—but they’re lazy, or arrogant, or too sick in the soul to learn. Stephen was one of those. From the first year, it was clear he was bored by the practice, the routine. And although desire is important, practice is what takes one from goodness to greatness, n’est-ce pas?”
I nodded.
“Bien. So, two years ago, Stephen seduced one of his family’s maids.”
I caught my breath.
“His father—who is very strict and proper—was disgusted by his behavior and threw him out of the house, along with her.”
“That’s hardly an equal consequence,” I said with some asperity. “She wouldn’t be able to find another position without a character.”
“C’est vrai. And of course Stephen wasn’t the sort to make a provision for her.”
“That poor girl.”
“Unfortunately, it’s not an unusual story. Not for that sort of gentleman.” The derisory note was heavy on the final word.
“What happened after that?”
“Stephen’s mother supported him for a while, with what she could, and it might have all
been forgotten with time. But he was extravagant, and when his debts began to heap up beyond what he could pay, he began to gamble.”
“And he fell further into debt?”
“Not at all. He gathered a group of young men to play with and managed to fleece one of them in particular. A boy named Andrew Palmer, who also happened to be a friend of Jacques’s. Stephen lured him in so deep the poor boy was desperate, until one night Stephen threatened to expose his debts to Andrew’s father unless Andrew gave up his instrument.”
I stiffened. “The violin.”
“Yes. An extraordinary one. A Guarneri.” He inclined his head toward me. “Do you know the name?”
“No.”
“Giuseppe Guarneri, del Gesù was a master violin maker in Italy in the early seventeen hundreds. A rival to Stradivari, though to my mind Guarneri was a superior craftsman. He made violins with a sound to make the angels cry. Worth hundreds of pounds—some of them thousands.”
The breeze was swirling fallen leaves and petals into fractured circles on the ground.
“So Stephen virtually stole the violin,” I said.
“And pawned it, then lied about how it had happened. Denied threatening the boy.” His nose wrinkled in disgust. “But you see, Andrew had told Jacques, and Jacques had confided in me because he was worried about his friend. Jacques had never met Stephen, and he didn’t even know his surname, but I knew enough to assemble the truth, and I told Principal Bennett.”
The breeze set the ends of my shawl flapping, and I clutched them closer. “Do you think Stephen knows the part Jack played?”
He considered this. “Possibly. If he discovered that Andrew and Jacques were friends.” The reason for Stephen’s attitude toward Jack was becoming abundantly clear.
“Very little of the story he told me resembles yours,” I said.
“But you don’t seem surprised.”
“I suppose I’m not.”
The back door swung open with a drawn-out squeak, and I saw Jack’s silhouette in the doorway, the light from the store behind him. “I need to oil that door,” Mr. Bertault sighed. “There’s always something that needs fixing, it seems.”
“Jack would do it for you.”
“He does too much for me already.” He looked up at the sky and clenched and unclenched his hands. “It’s going to storm. I can feel it in my joints.”
Jack walked down the three steps into the rose garden. His black hair blew across his brow, and he pushed it out of his eyes as he came toward us. “Mr. Wendell’s gone. He was our last appointment for the afternoon. Do you want me to lock the door?”
Mr. Bertault rose and drew out his pocket watch. His broad thumb pushed the button to open the case. “Mon Dieu, it’s after five o’clock. Your friend Nell has been patiently indulging my regrettable habit of boasting about my roses. I’ve probably bored her to tears.”
I shook my head. “It’s been perfectly lovely.”
Mr. Bertault put his watch back into his pocket. “I have to see Mr. Anders before six. Was Mr. Wendell pleased?”
Jack nodded. “He said it was what he wanted.”
“Hmph. Crotchety old man. He gave me nothing but trouble about it.” He reached for my hand and raised it to his lips. “Au revoir, Mademoiselle.” He turned to Jack. “Don’t forget to leave the note and the pages for Madame Sayer. She’s coming by tomorrow morning, first thing.”
“I have them ready,” Jack said.
“Goodbye,” I said, and gestured around me. “And thank you.”
Mr. Bertault smiled. Then he walked to the door, closing it behind him, and Jack and I were left alone. Above us, the clouds were scudding more quickly, the storm on its way.
Jack slid his hands into his coat pockets. “He likes you. He doesn’t usually share his garden.”
“He was being kind.” I walked toward the Black Hearts. “Jack . . .”
He followed me. “What?”
Gently, I touched one of the blooms. “The rose on the piano was from you. And I never thanked you because Stephen told me—or let me believe—it was from him.”
“I figured as much.”
I swallowed. “Your uncle told me the truth about him.” The wind gusted harder, and I shivered as I met his gaze. “You knew, didn’t you?”
“Not on his first day. But when I mentioned him to my uncle, he told me that it had been Stephen who’d cheated Andrew.”
“Why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you warn me what he was?”
“Because I barely knew you—and it was hardly my concern.”
“But I barely knew him,” I protested.
“What if you thought I was telling you those things to steer you away from him, just so I might have a chance?”
There was a long silence. Finally, I said softly, “Why did you even want that chance? After all, as you said, we barely knew each other then.”
I’d inadvertently placed a faint emphasis on the last word, and his smile told me he’d heard it. “Sometimes it doesn’t take long to know enough about someone,” he replied. “For me, it happened the day we tuned the piano.”
“Because I helped you?”
“No. Because you didn’t want to be misunderstood.”
I stared, mystified.
“When you saw that I knew how to tune the piano, you said that I should have corrected you. You were annoyed because I’d let you think something false about me. Do you remember?”
I nodded.
“I liked that you were honest about something that small.” His voice became quiet. “That’s really the only thing that matters, isn’t it? That two people can tell each other the truth.”
He stepped close enough that his breath was warm on my cheek, and his hands came out of his pockets to cup my elbows. I felt the warmth through my thin dress. My heart was slamming inside my chest, resonant as a bass drum, and I couldn’t speak. Then one of his hands slid down to hold mine.
My fingers looked pale against his brown ones, and I could feel the calluses across his palm.
Two birds trilled. A door blew shut somewhere—
And then he was turning my face up to his, his arm was around me, and his mouth was on mine, his kiss fierce as one of Beethoven’s symphonies and yet tender as a lullaby I knew by heart. The breeze swirled chill and damp around us, but where his skin touched mine, I could feel the quick heat of him, and when he finally let me go, we stood just staring at each other. My breath was coming ragged, and every nerve, down to my fingers, felt as if it were on fire.
“It’s raining,” he said, his voice hoarse.
I tipped my head back and felt one large drop and then another. Nothing delicate about them. They were the harbingers of a full-on rainstorm, and I hadn’t even noticed.
“Let’s go in.” He held my hand and took a step toward the door. But I stood rooted to the spot, suddenly overcome by a feeling taking shape deep inside my chest.
He looked puzzled. “What’s the matter?”
For once I wasn’t tongue-tied by a commotion of sentiments; there was only a clear sense of longing. “I don’t want it to be just this, Jack.”
Understanding lit his dark eyes, and a slow smile curved his mouth. He shook his head. “It isn’t.” And then his mouth was on mine again, and perhaps it began to rain in earnest, the drops plinking into the fountain; perhaps the wind bent the roses to its will; perhaps the four trees quivered, etching an ephemeral calligraphy upon the walls beyond; or perhaps not.
All I knew with any certainty was him.
Chapter 16
The next morning at breakfast, I must have run my eyes twenty times over the same story in the Record—something about the ongoing strife between Christian peasants and Bosnian chieftains in a little-known region of the Ottoman Empire. But I was thinking about Jack and trying to keep my happiness—a live, sparkling thing—from showing all over my face. The last thing I wanted was Matthew questioning me.
Jack and I had made plans to go to the museum i
n the afternoon, but first I had to go to the Falcon offices. It was Sunday, and I hoped that Jeremy had some good news for Marceline.
“Dr. Everett told me I could see Marceline this afternoon,” Matthew said.
The echo of her name from my own thoughts startled me. “Really? Already?”
“He says she’s able to talk, and he’s not concerned about disturbing her memory any longer, so I can take her statement.” He folded his newspaper back into order. “He also said she’s wary of police but seems to trust you. He thought it might be best if you were to introduce me.”
“Of course.” I could easily imagine Marceline feeling more at ease if I were there to vouch for him.
“Could you meet me at the hospital around one?”
I nodded. The newspaper offices, the hospital, and then the museum. I flexed my foot under the table and said a silent thank-you that my ankle was healed.
WHEN I PUSHED OPEN THE DOOR OF THE FALCON, Jeremy jumped up off a chair as if he’d been waiting for me for hours. “There you are! Thought you might’a forgot.”
“Of course not.” I frowned. “I’m early, you know. It’s not even noon.”
He sniffed and jerked his head toward the stairs. “Come on, then.”
I handed him my umbrella to carry, drew my skirts out of the way of my feet, and followed him up. “Were you able to find Sebastian?”
“Yah. ’Ow’s Marceline?”
“Much better.”
We reached the top of the second flight of stairs and headed down the hallway into the warren of ill-lit rooms. He directed me into one of them and stood with his feet planted and his chin lowered doggedly. “Now, you got to tell me where she is.”
I sighed. “No, Jeremy. She doesn’t want Sebastian or anyone to find her. She thinks it’s dangerous, and so long as she asks me not to, I’m not going to tell you.”
“It’s all right. I don’t need to know,” said a voice behind me.
I spun and saw Sebastian in the doorway. The breath came out of me in a rush. “Sebastian! Oh, thank goodness, you’re all right!”
